


Suicide Squeeze

by romanticallyinept



Series: 100 Songs for MCU [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Accidental Relationship, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Conversations, Begging, Blow Jobs, Clint Barton Feels, Comfort Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Getting Together, I promise, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Making Out, Past Violence, Pietro Maximoff Feels, Pietro is of undetermined age, Running Away, Telepathic Wanda Maximoff, nor does it have anything to do with suicide, so basically ignore the title and the summary, this fic has nothing to do with baseball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 15:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17286860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticallyinept/pseuds/romanticallyinept
Summary: Prompt: “Paradise By the Dashboard Light” by Meatloaf and Clint/Pietro.A suicide squeeze might be the riskiest play in all of baseball, simply because at any moment, any one of a dozen things can go wrong.





	Suicide Squeeze

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calimero_a](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calimero_a/gifts).



The first time is an accident.

Clint knows that “accident” isn’t the right word. “Unplanned” is more accurate. Still, he thinks that if he keeps calling it an accident every time he falls into bed with the silver-haired speedster, maybe one day he’ll start trying to avoid it.

The first time happens after Pietro wakes up in the medbay, after he panics because needles and doctors have never meant anything good for him. He bolts, and Steve wants to send someone out to track him down, bring him back, but Clint spends the better part of an hour talking him out of it. It’s a terrible idea. Pietro needs to know he can leave, if and when he wants to, needs to know that his freedom is not conditional and the Avengers aren’t going to be his new captors. 

(And, maybe, Clint remembers being seventeen and always having the idea of running away in his back pocket. Maybe he knows how years of dealing with the worst in people makes you start to expect the worst, because being right is better than being disappointed. Maybe he knows that, as long as the kid has someone chasing him, he’ll never stop running).

So they leave him be, and two days later, the kid comes back with dark circles under his eyes and his metaphorical tail between his legs. He all but falls into the embrace his sister offers him, and Clint carefully pretends he doesn’t notice the way the kid is shaking and clutching her. And then Wanda has to go, because she’s been putting her back into training, and Clint’s left alone with Pietro.

“Get it out of your system?” Clint asks, and the kid nods and wraps his arms around himself. He looks small and lost, and Clint doesn’t think about walking over to him and throwing an arm around Pietro’s shoulders. “Hey, it’s all right. We’re not going to hold it against you.”

Clint doesn’t expect Pietro to lean into him, for the kid to turn his face and all but bury it in Clint’s chest. But he goes with it, wrapping his arms around Pietro’s slender frame and just holding him. Whatever small modicum of comfort he can offer, he will.

Maybe it’s the gentle kiss he brushes over the crown of Pietro’s head, or maybe it’s the soft words he murmurs to the kid, or maybe it’s just because Clint knows how he’s feeling and doesn’t want Pietro to go making the same mistakes he did as a kid. Maybe it’s all of that, and maybe it’s none of it, but whatever the reason, Clint doesn’t fight it when Pietro drags him down into a messy kiss. 

Later, when the kid is passed out next to him, wearing one of Clint’s shirts and smelling like _them_ , Clint tells himself that it was an accident. 

When the morning rolls around, and Pietro wakes and slots himself between Clint’s legs, well. Clint chalks that up as an accident, too.

* * *

Avoiding the kid isn’t easy. Wherever Clint is, Pietro seems to be there too, whether it’s the gym, the kitchen, _Clint’s bedroom_... the kid is like a limpet, and Clint knows he should discourage it more than he does. But it’s hard to say no when Pietro’s gaze goes unsure, when he hesitates in reaching out, like he’s afraid Clint is going to turn him away.

So Clint just… doesn’t. He doesn’t, and he calls it an accident.

* * *

“I can’t tonight.”

Clint’s still covered in dust from their last fight, and his bones ache, and his ears are ringing, and he doesn’t have the energy to fall into bed with the teenager that’s sitting on the end of his bed. He wants a warm shower, and then he wants to sleep for the next 24 hours, and nowhere in that plan is time set aside to satisfy Pietro’s rampant libido.

But the kid just shrugs. “Then we will sleep,” he says, like that’s normal, and then kicks off his shoes and slides under the covers.

When Clint returns from his shower, Pietro is sound asleep, and it’s so easy to crawl into bed next to him and pass out.

* * *

“Hold up, kid. We need to talk.”

Pietro stops, like Clint wanted him to, but there’s a tension in his body when he sits down that Clint _doesn’t_ want. He’s stiff and he won’t meet Clint’s eyes. And Clint’s still half-asleep and he just wants to know what the hell is going on between them so he can stop feeling guilty for the longing he has in his chest.

“Don’t… Jesus, Pietro, just come here.”

Reaching out, Clint drags the kid back down next to him, tangling their legs together. He tucks white hair under his chin and wraps his arms around Pietro, effectively keeping him in place. It won’t work if the kid actually tries to go anywhere, but it gets his point across.

Whatever his point is. He’s not actually all that sure.

“Poor choice of words on my part,” he admits, and Pietro snorts against his chest. It’s a wet sound, and Clint grits his teeth against the thought that he made the kid cry.

“I just want to know what you want,” he says. “So I know I’m not forcing anything on you.”

Clint blinks, and then his arms are cradling nothing and Pietro is gone.

* * *

“Maximoff is AWOL again.”

Clint takes a sip of his coffee and doesn’t say anything, because it’s early and there’s no reason for him to answer the statement Steve’s directed at the entire kitchen.

“You know anything about that, Barton?”

Sighing, Clint rubs his eyes. “Why would I know anything about that?” he asks, and in his mind he hears the echo of himself saying _we need to talk_.

Steve makes a vague hand gesture. “Because you two…” he says. “You know.”

Clint takes another sip, burns his mouth. Doesn’t think about Steve knowing. “Don’t know where he is, Cap. We don’t exactly talk all that much.”

And Steve, because he’s _Steve_ , blushes.

* * *

This time, the kid stays gone for a week. When he comes back, he’s thinner than he was, and his eyes are sunken, gaunt. He flinches away when Clint offers him a hug, and that action speaks more volumes than any conversation they could have had. 

Later, Wanda corners him in the gym. They’re alone and she’s glowing, faintly, and Clint has to grit his teeth before he speaks.

“JARVIS, surveillance off.”

“Gym surveillance off, Mr. Barton.”

“Make it quick,” he tells her, and then closes his eyes and braces himself.

The assault on his mind isn’t… well, it isn’t an assault at all. It doesn’t feel invasive, like Loki’s did. It’s calm and directed, and it immediately pulls up the memory Clint has been playing on repeat for the past week, playing it back one more time and lingering on Clint’s words. His last words to the kid.

“ _So I know I’m not forcing you into anything._ ”

The presence in his mind retreats, peacefully and easily as it came. Clint blinks. Wanda is still glowing, still agitated, but none of her restless energy seems to be directed at Clint. 

“You did not hurt him,” she says, and Clint opens his mouth to protest, because he did. He very obviously did. He hurt the kid by touching him in the first place, hurt him with every kiss and caress and kind word. But Wanda raises a hand and shakes her head, firmly. “No. You did not. Others did, but you did not.”

Then she turns and stalks away and Clint tells JARVIS to bring surveillance back up.

* * *

“ _Others did, but you did not._ ”

Clint walks into the kitchen the morning after his conversation with Wanda, and Pietro is standing there, leaning against the counter. He glances up when the older man walks in, and then his eyes go back to the ground almost immediately. Clint’s chest aches.

“We should talk,” the kid says, and Clint lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. 

“All right, kid. Let’s talk.”

He takes a seat at the island, but Pietro doesn’t move. He stays standing, arms looped around his middle, and this time, when Clint reaches out, the kid doesn’t flinch away. He doesn’t look up, either, but he does take Clint’s hand, lets the older man slowly draw him forward, until Clint can press his nose into silver hair and wrap his own arms around Pietro’s slender waist. 

“Why’d you run?” he asks, and gently smoothes his fingers up Pietro’s back. They come to rest at the nape of his neck, and the kid lets out a shaky sigh, pressing his forehead into Clint’s collarbone. 

“You made me forget,” Pietro murmurs. “Did not treat me like I am broken.”

“You’re not,” Clint says, and Pietro huffs a laugh against Clint’s skin. “No, I mean it. Look at me.”

He pulls away and reaches up to lift Pietro’s chin. His eyes are red and the circles under them are dark, and Clint knows he has to match because dammit, he got used to sharing a bed far more quickly than he expected. “You’re not broken,” he says. “You’ve got a past, same as all of us. That’s all.”

“You asked if you were forcing me,” Pietro interrupts. “You would not have asked if…”

“If you weren’t a _kid_.”

Pietro blinks.

(And Clint wonders how he must have felt, the betrayal that would have welled up when the kid thought Clint was handling him like glass, because no one likes pity and even though it’s not pity that Clint feels, he knows that love and empathy can come across skewed when the situation is right. Or wrong.)

“I didn’t ask because I was worried about your baggage,” Clint says. “I asked because you’re young, and I remember being a kid and getting caught up in shit and not saying no because I didn’t think I could.”

Pietro blinks again, and Clint opens his mouth to repeat himself, but the kid moves fast, putting a hand over his mouth.

“I know how to say no,” he says, brows furrowed. “Did you think you were making me sleep with you?”

Clint shakes his head. Pietro removes his hand, nods at him. “What, then?” the kid asks.

And Clint shrugs, because now, in the light of day and in the company of someone else, it sounds a little more stupid than it did in his head. 

“I thought I was… projecting,” he says. “Feelings. Making you feel obligated to… to stay. Like that night.” He pauses. “Look, I just wanted to make sure you actually wanted to spend nights with me when we aren’t… we’re not…”

“Fucking?” Pietro finishes, and Clint winces.

“Yeah.”

The kid snorts, his arms crossed on his chest. “You are nice to sleep next to,” he says. “You are warm. And safe.” He pauses. “It is easier to sleep when I am in your bed.”

“I like having you there,” Clint says. “I like having you around in general.”

Pietro rolls his eyes. “You are very sentimental,” he says, and Clint can’t help but laugh a little. 

“Old age will do that to you, kid.” He holds out his hand. “C’mere.”

Pietro takes his hand, and Clint tugs him in close again, closing his eyes. “We okay?” he asks, even though, really, he knows the answer.

Pietro huffs, but when he speaks, his lips move against Clint’s neck, sending shivers to all the right places. “I have not slept properly for a week,” he murmurs. “Make it up to me.”

Clint doesn’t have super-strength on his side, but it’s still relatively easy to stand, to lift the kid up off the ground. Pietro’s legs go around his waist, locking in the small of his back, and the kid’s head goes to his chest, right over his heart. 

“Your sister is worried about you,” he says, feels it when the kid scoffs against his shirt.

“She always worries. She sees inside my head, and she knows everything, and she still worries.”

Clint taps the elevator button. Kisses Pietro’s ear, because he can, then kisses his cheek because he can do that, too. 

“She saw in my head,” he says. “And I’m still alive, so. I’m assuming she doesn’t worry about us?”

“Us,” Pietro repeats, like he’s testing the word. Clint likes how it sounds, coming from his lips. “She knows you are a good man. And she knows you make me happy.”

“You make me happy, too,” Clint replies. “When you’re not disappearing for days on end.”

Pietro huffs, and he nuzzles farther into the crook of Clint’s neck, and Clint forgets that he’s upset with the kid. Because at seventeen, Clint’s not sure he would have come back the _first_ time, much less the second, and how the hell can he fault the kid for it? 

The door to his room opens as he approaches, making it easy for him to carry Pietro inside, to lay him down on the bed. Clint keeps them close, chest to chest, propped up on his elbows above the younger man. Carefully, gently, he brushes a kiss over Pietro’s forehead, and then the tip of his nose, and then his cheek, and finally, his mouth. Clint lingers on that kiss, sliding one hand behind Pietro’s head and drawing him deeper into it. And Pietro goes with it, leans in with him and opens his mouth for Clint’s tongue. 

But that’s not what Clint’s going for. He presses another, apologetic, kiss to Pietro’s nose, and then moves lower, nudging aside the collar of his shirt to press a kiss to his pulse. “Next time,” he murmurs, lets his teeth drag against Pietro’s soft skin, but the kid interrupts him before he can finish.

“You will come after me?” Pietro asks, his voice breathy and rough. 

Clint smirks and bites down hard to leave a mark. It won’t stay for long, but it’s still nice to see, dark against pale skin. “No,” he says, his mouth pressed right up against the bruise he left just a moment before. 

_Maybe he knows that, as long as the kid has someone chasing him, he’ll never stop running._

“Next time, don’t stay gone for so damn long.”

* * *

There’s a thin sheen of sweat on Pietro’s body, just barely glinting in the dim light of the bedroom. His fingers are curled into the sheets, gripping them tightly, and his eyes are screwed shut against the pleasure he’s feeling, like he’s trying to anchor himself in the darkness behind his eyelids.

Clint doesn’t care. He hums, lips tight around the head of Pietro’s cock, his thumbs pressing against the kid’s hipbones. Anchoring him in another, more physical way. 

“Please,” Pietro whispers, and there’s a hitch his voice that Clint wants to savor forever.

It’s not an accident when he sinks down, when Pietro’s cock hits the back of his throat. It’s entirely purposeful, a chosen descent into _them_ , and the cry the kid makes when Clint swallows around him is enough to let him know it’s the right decision.

**Author's Note:**

> calimero_a prompted me this a long time ago, and the story went through a few identity crises before it came out like this. Way more feels than I intended, but. I like the end result.
> 
> So, if you want to prompt me, do so! Song/trope/ and a pairing, hit me!
> 
> Also, this fic marks the first installment of what I hope will be 1000 words/week for me. Something new is due around January 17/18, so keep an eye out!


End file.
